


Fun with Portals

by heeroluva



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Magical Accidents, Portals, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-31 07:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: Someday Geralt's curiosity will be the end of him.





	Fun with Portals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



Geralt pushes the hair sticking to his forehead back with a grimace and reminds himself to seek out a barber the next time he’s in town. This summer is the hottest he can recall ever experiencing, made worse by the humidity of the near daily rain. He’s more than tired of his own stink and would pay a small fortune for a cool bath right now, but those things would have to wait until he finished this contract.

A completely unfamiliar roar suddenly echoes across the valley from what has to be leagues away, and Geralt squeezes his thighs against Roach’s sides, urging her into a gallop; her hoofs eat up the ground, sending up great chunks of mud in their wake. This clearly isn’t the wraiths he’d been sent to dispose of, but his curiosity won’t allow him to ignore this.

Roach rears suddenly and Geralt does his best not to be thrown when a shocking beam of cold light shoots past them, causing a tree to explode into a massive shower of splinters. He hisses in pain as some of them pierce him, finding exposed skin and some of the larger ones even piercing through his leather armor.

Roach screams suddenly in pain and fear, clearly not spared the same treatment, and this time Geralt isn’t as lucky as she bucks. He loses his grip, groaning as he hits the ground hard before she bolts. Another beam of light appears scant inches above his head, turning his breath white and causing him to shiver, not dressed for the winter.

Pushing himself to his feet, Geralt pulls out the worst of the splinters before venturing closer. The sounds increase in intensity, the beams of ice appearing more frequently, until things abruptly go eerily quiet. His medallion dances wildly against his chest as he follows the trail of destruction to its source. Geralt abruptly stops at the edge of a ring of ruined trees that have formed a clearing, scarcely breathing as he tries to take in what he’s seeing.

The creature is larger than the Kayran, larger than a dragon, larger perhaps than any creature he’s ever seen outside of the sea. It’s curled up, sleeping or unconscious perhaps, hiding its true size, its eyes closed as strange wheezing breathes escape it. It lays on a rapidly shrinking sheet of ice, the already saturated ground turning to a mud pit in the face of the oppressive heat.

The beast’s thick fur is caked with mud, hiding its true color. Its head is heavily plated, its neck huge with muscle. Its horns are likely decorative, a dark grey, set to the side and curling back, though they end in deadly points. One massive paw flexes and claws each longer than Geralt’s leg slip out of their sheathes much like a cat. Huge tusk-like protrusions jut out from the creature’s lower jaw, perhaps for digging?

The creature shifts again, its tail coming into view, shockingly colossus as the rest of it, thickly muscled but ending in a large knot of cartilage instead of tapering to a point. Its back is lined with large spikes, and Geralt is more excited at the discovery of a new creature than he cares to admit. Nearly every inch of it is deadly, fashioned to survive in a harsh environment perhaps?

When one huge, startling red eye opens and pierces him, Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for his sword. He knows little of this creature except what he’s just observed, and that gives him more than enough pause than to go into a fight blindly. Until he’s certain it’s a threat, he will not make the first move. A quick glance at the destruction it’s caused is more than enough to show that it’s more than a little dangerous. Not completely foolish though, he casts Quen, the familiar magic blanketing his body, even knowing it probably would not survive a hit from this creature.

The creature makes no move towards him, just watches, breathing sounding increasingly labored, and Geralt wonders if it’s injured. Those red eyes swirl strangely, and Geralt can see confusion and fear, pain and intelligence. “What are you?” he asks. “Where did you come from? How did you get here?” Geralt draws in a startled breath as his feet propel him forward without his volition, his boots making a horrid squelching sound with each step.

Heart racing, if Geralt had thought they beast looked huge from a distance, up close, there’s no denying its size. His next action though is his own, his fingers reaching out, pressing against one of the massive plates on its head.

Geralt jerks as if struck by lightning, the creature suddenly in his mind, searching, searching until it snags onto an image of a snow-covered mountain. The creature grabs him suddenly, it’s massive paw curling around him, and lifting him easily. Geralt’s is barely conscious, his head splitting when hears the familiar sound of a portal. “Fucking portals,” he grumbles before the creature steps through, carrying Geralt with him.

The sudden cold steals the breath from Geralt’s lungs, and he shivers violently. His shield shatters a moment later, and the true bite of the cold finally steals what’s left of his senses then his consciousness.

He’s confused, in pain, scared, and far far too hot. He shouts his fury to the world, tries to cool himself, but all he manages is to work himself into exhaustion. The heat saps his strength and with the last of it, he forms an ice bed and curls up onto it.

He doesn’t move as he feels someone approaching, someone dangerous, but not currently a danger to him. There’s no killing intent, only the slightest bit of fear and a lot of curiosity. The man’s hair is a shock of white, his eyes golden and strangely slitted. He bids the man closer, needing, needing, what he isn’t sure. When the man touches him, he reaches out, and rages through his mind none too gently. He would have destroyed a lesser man in his haste, but none of that mattered as he latches onto images of ice and snow.

The portal appears easily with but a thought, and before he considers what he’s doing, he grabs the man, taking him with him. Perhaps he should have thought that through better, the man clearly unprepared for the cold, the extreme temperature change. His own discomfort eases greatly and the spell comes haltingly, his magic acting strange before enveloping the man in a slow warmth, no need to shock his system further and kill him.

First he finds a cave, digging deep through layers of ice and snow until the cavernous entrance is revealed. After hauling his prize in, he blocks off the entrance to escape from the frigid wind. With more effort than it should have required, he conjures furs and a magical fire that gives off heat but requires no fuel and does not burn before easing the man down and bundling him up.

Next he tends to his own needs, grooming his matted fur until it all but glows in the flames, glossy with health. Every inch of him aches, and when he tries to recall a time before the heat, his mind shies away from it. Not so easily deterred, he forges forward, the ache in his chest increasing, his head pounding, threatening to splinter. He is—he is—his name is—

Loki screams.

Geralt jerks upward, startled awake by a roar, sword appearing in his hand as he struggles to make sense of what’s going on, of where he is, of how he got here, of what exactly he’s seeing. The massive creature before him is writhing, shrieking in discomfort and very quickly shrinking. No, not just shrinking, changing, its body transforming, its grey-blue fur receding to reveal slightly brighter blue skin covered with strange raised swirls and lines.

The humanoid form crouches, clearly male, panting, fingers fisting against the stone floor, long black hair falling forward across his face, delicate horns crowning his head.

Slowly Geralt resheaths his sword, and the man’s head snaps up at the sound, his eyes the same piercing ruby red of the beast.

“You will teach me,” the voice is rough, but Geralt recognizes the tone, the self-importance that all royalty has.

Geralt snorts, not at all impressed. “I think not.”

The strange blue man rises to his feet, standing a number of inches taller than Geralt, but much less heavily muscled. There is no shame or smugness in his lack of attire, his soft cock rather remarkable even in its current state as Geralt can’t help but let his eyes rake over him.

The corners of his mouth curl, clearly seeing the appreciation in Geralt’s gaze. “You will teach me of this world,” he repeats again before adding, “or I’ll take what I need from your mind before I destroy it and leave your body an empty shell.”

Geralt is no fool, is certain that this man can do exactly as he says, yet he can’t help but sneer. “Does that line usually work for you?”

The man appears stunned and suddenly seems surprising young, and Geralt wonders if he’s misjudged, if this is no man at all. The only warning that Geralt gets is the way his face suddenly twists with fury and faster than Geralt can track, the man is upon him, an ice blade pressed against his neck, blood immediately welling. Casting Aard, Geralt sends the man flying into the wall with an oomph and a groan before he collapses again the floor.

He staggers to his feet, before making a pained sound. His face goes grey before his eyes roll back, and he drops hard to the cave floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Geralt glances between the fallen man and the blocked cave entrance and sighs heavily as he grumbles. “First portals and now this. Fucking great day this has turned out to be.”

Taking stock of his supplies, Geralt knows that even if he was to escape, he would not survive the elements, not dressed as he is or with his current stores. Next he examines the strange fire, surprised by the warmth it gives off, yet when he reaches towards it, eventually sticks his hand in it fully, it doesn’t burn. And finally he turns back towards the unconscious man, sliding his hand over the stranger’s body, searching for injuries.

His skin is strangely cool to the touch, something that would worry Geralt on anyone else, but whatever this man is, he’s clearly at home in the cold. He finds no lump hidden by his black hair, finds no problems with his limbs, but when he gets to his chest, he finds a spot that nearly searingly hot compared to the rest of him, feels the swelling of injured ribs. As Geralt probes at them, the man makes an unhappy sound, clearly pained, but luckily they don’t seem to be broken. Remembering the beast’s harsh breathing, Geralt thinks that he’d been previously injured.

His neck is another hot spot, all the way around. Geralt barely brushes over it before tears leaking from the man’s eyes, the whole of it now visibly swollen now that he knows what he’s looking at. That’s more worrying. Geralt is no healer, knows basic first aid, and how to patch himself up, but nothing he knows can fix this. If this had been another Witcher, he’d have given them a Swallow potion, but even still there’d have been at least a week’s recovery.

This man is clearly no Witcher, not even human, but Geralt with not risk poisoning him even after the attack. Geralt knows a bluff when he sees one. As carefully as he is able, he bundles the furs around him, doing his best to support his neck before he kneels beside the strange fire and begins to meditate.

  
When Loki wakes it’s to warmth and pain. He pushes the furs away and sits up carefully, hissing in discomfort as he does so. He startles when something lands on his lap, grabbing at the strange bottle before he raises eyes to the man kneeling beside the fire before him. He eyes it suspiciously. “What’s this?”

“It’s called Swallow, a healing potion. It’s too strong for humans, would most likely kill them. Figured you know better than most if it would work for you.”

Still not trusting it, Loki uncorks it and gives it a hesitant sniff. He doesn’t recognize anything dangerous, but there are ways to mask most of them, even a probe with his magic proves inconclusive, the composition unfamiliar. Taking a tiny taste, he wheezes suddenly, eyes watering at the surprisingly high alcohol content. Before he can regret it, Loki gulps it down, swaying suddenly as warmth spreads out from his belly.

Strong calloused hands tug surprisingly gently on his shoulders, urging him to lay down, and Loki goes easily as the world spins. The last thing he sees is concerned gold cat eyes peering down at him, his lips moving, but Loki can’t hear the words.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” Geralt growls as he lays the man down. For long minutes he worries until the man suddenly giggles in his sleep, and Geralt realizes he’s drunk off his ass. With a weary sigh, Geralt closes his eyes, intent to meditate once more, when a hand wraps around his own. He stares down at it bemused before he lets his eyes drift shut once more.

When Geralt opens his eyes again it’s to the weight of the other’s gaze on him. Opening his eyes, he meets ruby red ones.

His face is full of confusion. “Why do you aid me? After I attacked you, you could have easily killed me.”

“I don’t kill monsters unless they deserve it.” Geralt notes the way he tenses slightly at the word monster.

“How noble of you. You’d get along well with my brother I imagine.” The mocking tone turns to a melancholy one.

Geralt snorts. “Been called many things in my life, but never noble. I’m good at killing. Trained to kill monsters since I was a child. Doesn’t mean that I do so indiscriminately.”

He stares at Geralt for long moments, considering him, before he finally says, “Thank you for your aid. It’s more than I deserve. I am Prince Loki of Asg—” He breaks off abruptly, face twisting in sorrow before he finishes. “I am Loki.”

There is a story there, but Geralt doesn’t ask. “Name’s Geralt. I’m a Witcher. You can call me a problem solver.”

“A problem solver who kills monsters?”

“Have a friend whose entrails are strewn across the porch and his head a few paces away? Being haunted by the spirit a dead loved one? Those are the types of problems I solve.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Is it the scars that give it away?” Geralt snarks.

“They are rather impressive.” Loki’s eyes rake over Geralt’s form. “Is it the same beneath your armor?”

Flirting? Geralt certainly didn’t expected that. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want to get me out of my armor.”

Loki’s eyes flash and a small smile plays across his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Loki pauses and tucks a strand of black hair behind his ear. “Do you take side jobs? If I wish to hire you to educate me about this world, what say you?”

Geralt can’t say that he’s surprised by the request, but at the same time he’s not sure if he should agree, even as curious as he is. “Can’t say I’m all that trusting of sorcerers. Always scheming. But for the right price I might be willing.”

A large bag of gold suddenly hits the floor between them, appearing from nowhere, and Geralt scoffs. “You think I’m fool enough to accept conjured gold?”

Loki frowns, looking annoyed. “I assure you it’s real.”

“Real enough in the moment I am sure, but the last thing I need is to have merchants out for my head because the gold I paid them up and vanished.”

“Fine, don’t—” Loki breaks off with a pained howl, head flying back as his body twists, stretches, grows, the sound deepening the larger he becomes until he’s once more the massive beast that Geralt had first seen.

Geralt scrambles away lest he be squashed, and watches the transformation curiously. It seems to have not been voluntary, and when it’s finished Loki seems more than a little put out, huffing before he flops down. 

At the sudden pressure in his head, Geralt flinches and staggers, hands pressing against his skull. It’s Geralt’s turn to howl as the pressure grows until he’s certain that his head will explode, his knees giving out beneath him without his notice, face hitting the stone floor causing a gush of blood from his nose, but it barely registers.

Geralt doesn’t hear the portal, barely notices that he’s falling until the pain disappears so suddenly that it leaves him disoriented. He only has a second to register the ground coming up beneath him fast until he lands in a mudpit, the air driven from his lungs. Momentarily stunned, it takes him a while to roll onto his back with a groan, spitting out mud. “I hate portals,” he groans. It’s a struggle to get to his feet, staggering more than a drunk man as he slides through the mud towards more solid ground, but finally he gets his body to do as he wills it.

Giving a whistle, Geralt is relieving when Roach appears a minute later, still clearly unhappy. He scratches her head, and gentles her as best he can as he pulls out the worst of the splinters. “Easy girl.” When he climbs onto her back, she dances beneath his weight, but luckily she goes where he leads. He’ll make it up to her at the next town. There’s a contract he needs to finish now, and the first body of water he comes across has his name on it.

Much to Geralt’s displeasure, it’s over a week later before he finally finds a body water to bathe in. After killing the handful of drowners that make the pond their home, he doesn’t bother to strip, just walks straight into it, armor and all. He tugs off each piece of his armor one at a time before tossing it to the shore. It’s a pity that the leather might be beyond saving, but he’ll see what he can do with oil later.

Finally Geralt wrings out the last of his garments and lays them over a branch before submerging himself completely. Grabbing a handful of sand from the bottom he uses it to scrub off the worst of the grime until his skin is red from the abuse but blessedly clean. He working through the knots of his hair when he hears the sound of a portal opening close by. Cursing, Geralt moves towards the shore to grab a sword, only relaxing slightly when the strange blue man steps past the tree line. He’s fashioned himself a loincloth of a sort, but the expanse of strange blue skin is no less appealing.

Loki’s eyes slide over the sword in Geralt’s hand before they flicker to Geralt’s bare form, rivulets of water sloshing down his body. “Now, now, there’s no need for that.” His face twists suddenly, his nostrils flaring. “What _is_ that stench?”

Geralt wonders that Loki doesn’t seem disgusted or even surprised by his scars. “Funny, last time I saw you, you damn near killed me. And that’d be drowers,” Geralt says as he motions towards their smoldering remains. 

Loki glances away suddenly, looking uncomfortable and strangely young. “I assure you that was not my intention. I—That is—I mean—” He breaks off abruptly, and he smiles wryly as he says, “My people call me a wordsmith, Silvertongue, yet I find myself unable to voice a simple apology. I am unused to admitting weakness or needing help.”

Despite his wariness Geralt can’t help but find himself more intrigued that ever and perhaps even a little charmed. With a sigh, Geralt sheaths his sword and leans it back against the tree. “I much prefer the truth over pretty words. Speak your mind.”

With the ease that only royals have, Loki sits on a fallen tree, and while Geralt waits for his response, he pulls on his still damp trousers and tunic. When the cloth slips over his head, Geralt finds Loki staring at him curiously.

“I do not trust easy, yet I find myself drawn to you. Have you cast a spell on me, Sir Witcher?”

“We’ve seen each other naked. I think we’re past the point of such formality. I’m no sorcerer, and Witcher magic is limited to five spells: shielding, force, fire, minor time influence in fights, and yes, mind manipulation, but usually only works on the simple minded. You don’t strike me as simple.”

Loki laughs. “No, much to my fam—” He breaks off abruptly, facing twisting with sorrow.

Geralt wonders what tragedy brought him here.

“Let’s see it then.”

“See what?” Geralt asked confused.

“Your mind manipulation.”

“It’s not a party trick.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Fine,” Geralt says as he crouches down in front of Loki, making the hands sign as he says “Axii.” He’s more than a little shocked when it seems to work, Loki’s eyes going unfocused. With a sigh, Geralt says the first thing that comes to mind, “Sleep,” and carefully lowers him onto the log.

Geralt is frowning at the damage as he oils his armor when Loki begins to stir ten minutes later.

Face twisted in disorientation, Loki scrubs at his as he sits up with a groan. “You slid past my shields as though they didn’t exist. We’ll have to practice this again later.”

“Later?” Geralt asks, wondering that the man seems to have long-term plans.

Loki raises sad red eyes to Geralt’s. “I do not know how I arrived here. The last thing I remember was dying at the hands of a mad titan as my brother was forced to watch. I did what I do best. I lied to him, told him that the sun will shine on us again. But me who always plans five steps ahead, had nothing up my sleeve. I gave up my trump card to save my brother, to save the remainder of my people, and I died so that I wouldn’t have to see him die.”

“You seem to be doing pretty well for a dead guy.” Geralt says, trying to lighten the mood as he tries to make sense of what he’s hearing.

Loki lets out a small startled laugh. “I do, don’t I? I know I was dead, so waking up was a shock. That I was in this form was even more of one.”

Gesturing at him, Geralt asks, “This is not your true form? Are you the beast?”

Loki shakes his head. “No, this is my true form, though I wasn’t aware of that until a few years past. I spent most of my life with a skin color similar to yours, my eyes a blue-green. I do not know how or why I’ve been turning into a Jotunheim Beast. While a shapeshifter, it was never a form I took before I landed here, and it seems to be a transformation that I cannot control. Since I’ve arrived my magic isn’t responding as it should, and that along with my emotions seem somewhat tied to the change.”

“You seem well versed in portal magic.”

“Do I? Funny enough that is not a power that I had before I came here. I could use portals, yes, but they required an artifact such as the Tesseract to create, and even so they were not so easily controlled. This power is different, instinctive. I can jump anywhere, but without a picture I’m aiming blindly.”

Geralt files ‘Tesseract’ away for later questioning. “That’s what you sought in my head. Doesn’t explain the second time though.”

“Yes, and I truly cannot explain it myself. When I’m in that form, I am not myself. It’s me, yet not. There are instincts, needs, desires, that I don’t understand. I couldn’t stop myself even though I knew what I was doing was killing you, so I sent you away. I do hope that you suffered no ill effects.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, the pain disappeared as soon as I fell through the portal. You owe me for that though, landing me in that mud pit.” Geralt holds up the armor he’s working on to show him the damage. “What you witnessed was the first bath I had since then.”

“My apologies, the next mud puddle you find, you’re welcome to throw me in.”

Giving into the suddenly impulse, Geralt stands and sweeps the man up in his arms, and ignoring his started—“What do you think you’re—” Geralt tosses him into the pond.

Loki rises a moment later, treading water and sputtering before he begins to laugh. “Well, I suppose I deserved that.” Walking towards the shore he wrings out his long black hair.

It’s Geralt’s turn to watch the play of water across Loki’s skin. Geralt barely has time to register the sound of a portal before he’s falling, landing in the water himself, coughing as he stands, his nearly dry clothes once against soaked. As Loki laughs—Geralt finds that he enjoys the sound of it—Geralt lunges and wraps himself around a startled Loki who yelps before they sink beneath the water together.

When Loki slips out of Geralt’s arms and doesn’t rise right away, he begins to worry until he feels something wrap around his ankle and pull him down. When he breaks the surface it’s to a laughing Loki, and it becomes a game of tag after that, each pulling the other under, occasionally grappling until the sun begins to set and they both stand in the shallows, pressed together and panting.

Geralt can’t remember the last time he’s done something like this, but his attention drifts to their position, his hands curled around Loki’s biceps, his thumbs rubbing along the odd smooth markings that cover Loki’s body. Loki’s hands on the bare skin of Geralt’s hips, his shirt lost somewhere at the bottom of the pond in their tussling.

Geralt doesn’t know who kisses who first, Loki’s cool lips pressed against his own, barely a brush. But before Geralt can really enjoy it, between one heartbeat and the next, the sound of a portal and Loki’s yelp is all the warning Geralt gets before Loki slips out of his hand and disappears along with most of the water in the pond.

Bemused, Geralt stares at the spot that Loki had stood just a moment before for long seconds. Shaking his head, he mutters, “Damned portals.” He wonders how long it’ll take Loki to pop up again this time, certain that this won’t be the last time he sees him. They have some unfinished business after all.

Turning Geralt sees his shirt floating in the shallow pool that remains of the pond as fish flop in the sand and mud around it in search of water. Grabbing his shirt, he squeezes it out, throwing it over his shoulder as he turns to build a fire. Looks like it’s fish for dinner.


End file.
